


Creator of Heaven and Earth

by orphan_account



Series: The Credo Collection [4]
Category: Ashes to Ashes, Lewis (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Creator of Heaven and Earth

I had that sixth sense that something bad was going to happen when we left the nick. Normally I’d made the excuse of not drinking to avoid going to the pub but this night Gene Hunt had said he didn’t care if I drank girlie drinks, it was Saturday night and I was coming out to be sociable.

The lad made a huge mistake approaching Barry. I admit that Barry is a bit of a dandy and he was coming along behind the rest of us but from a distance of yards you could see that he is a bit of a tough-nut. The first we knew about it was Barry’s roar of

“Ye whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?” and a thud as the boy hit the ground. Before I could stop them, the Guv and the other two lads were putting the boot in. The youngster didn’t even have the sense to protect his head and I couldn’t stop myself.

“Give over” I shouted, pushing myself beween the flying feet and his head “Ye’ll kill ‘im.”

“Oh yeah?” said Gene Hunt, his face red, blood lust in his eyes “Your boyfriend is he, Haggis? Worried we might damage his pretty face?”

“Fuck off Guv” I said quietly and wondered if I might walk away from this or end up a pulpy mess on the pavement next to the rent boy I was trying to protect. Nobody ever told Gene Hunt where to go. “You ever, EVER, accuse me of that again and I’ll rip yer bollocks off – boss or not” I was breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching my fists like we used to in the playground and I only had to think back to my Glasgow childhood to remember how to fistfight.

“You pansy, nancy, woofter Jockanese queer” he hissed at me before turning on his heel and leading his gang off to the pub. I knew I hadn’t heard the last of it but my concern was with the lad on the floor.

“Y’alright son?” I asked, bending over him. He lifted his face to me and I drew my breath, he was the image of a younger James Hathaway, same chin, same eyes but nearly a child, softer and if possible, more vulnerable. I hefted him up with an arm over my shoulders.

We staggered over the road to my bed-sit and I did my best to clean up his face, not wanting to have to take him to hospital because neither he nor I would want to explain how he came by the boot-prints on his face and the split lip and cut ear. He whimpered as I dabbed at his cuts with antiseptic

“Shut up”, I said, “I’m sure that’s not the worst you’ve ever known.”

He tried to raise an eyebrow but stopped because it hurt “What would you know about it, Sir?”

“The name is Mr. Cameron and I’m not Sir, I’m just a copper. Pack it in.” I was rough with him because I knew that if I was kind to him I would let him in under my defenses and I wanted to avoid that. Abstinence and prayer, I had promised, abstinence and prayer it would be. He grabbed my sleeve

“Why are you helping me? Your mates would have killed me. Don’t you know what I am?”

“You’re a human being. Whatever you have to do for a living you don’t deserve to have the living crap beaten out of you. Now sit still and let me finish what I’m doing and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

He started to cry, quietly, with dignity, not sobbing, just letting tears run down his face which I cleared away with the blood “Stop that, now. No need for that.” I mumbled. Please, God, don’t let him tell me his life story because I’ll start feeling sorry for him, even sorrier than I feel now.

I sat in the armchair and looked across at him as he sprawled on the sofa, drinking his tea. “You can stay here tonight. In the morning I’ll take you somewhere they can help you. OK?”

“I could be good to you,” he said “Please, let me, I’d like to be nice to you. You’ve been so kind to me.”

I waved him away “No thanks, Son. It’s a generous offer but no…”

“How do you know, Sir? I can do things … you wouldn’t know it wasn’t a woman… I can..”

“Shut up” I hadn’t meant to shout at him. “It’s OK. Really. Listen – haven’t you ever been smacked about or not paid by your … clients?”

He nodded, wary.

“Well,” I continued “Take this as compensation. One bloke that doesn’t shag and run. OK?” He nodded again.

“You can sleep on the sofa” I suggested, “I’ll have the bed and in the morning I’ll take you to see someone who will be able to help …. That is if you want.”

I went behind the curtain into the alcove and lay on my bed, putting the headphones over my ears to listen to the radio. James’ voice came through, cool and sophisticated.

“Well done, Frazer. Another test passed. You didn’t feel anything, did you? Just pity.” I hadn’t even thought about it, no I hadn’t been tempted. He was just a kid, an abused, messed-up kid and God only knew, I understood that.

In the morning I would take him to Fr. Brendan and ask he could sort him out with a hostel and perhaps some kind of help. It was Sunday, I’d be going to Mass anyway.

“Goodnight, Frazer. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, James. Thank you.” I managed to mutter a decade of the rosary under my breath before I fell asleep.


End file.
